Sturridge targets England call-up

Chelsea dismiss claims over Terry

Chelsea snap up Russian Zhirkov

Could He Get Any Verse?

Well, when it looked as though the country’s artistic elite would let us down with not a line, rhyme, portrait or sculpture to greet the arrival of our new manager, I had to take matters into my own hands.

As a man who is comfortable in the palaces of high culture, I took it upon myself to rectify the situation by commissioning Doggerell naGobshite, one of Ireland’s foremost Gaelic poets, to pen a few well-turned verses in honour of Carlo’s arrival.

Aside from negligible cost, Doggerell being one of Ireland’s most committed Chelsea fans only required the price of a pint or ten, there were many other reasons for choosing him. But the major drawback was his inability to write in the medium of English. Now this publishing lark isn’t cheap and in order to keep costs down I undertook the translation from the original Gaelic myself. It was hard work as naGobshite excels in a peculiar verse form found only in the 7th century bardic traditions of three villages in a remote area of Munster, but I believe I have rendered the beauty of the piece as it appeared in the original language.

Textual Notes (by the well known critic Limerick O’Loonihan)

Noting Carlo’s background in Calcio we see how, rather than engaging in free verse, the poet has chosen a disciplined and quite rigid form in which to give expression to his art. There is an ordered rhyme scheme coupled with a well-structured rhythm throughout the piece. This mirrors expectations of how the manager will approach the game.

Creativity, you ask? Well some would say that what sets the greats apart is their ability to practise within the rigour of a set format, the straitjacket of form if you like. Subtle changes of pace and rhythm, flashes of brilliance bursting out and momentarily changing the pattern, unsettling and inspiring by turns.

All this can be found within naGobshite’s fine writing.

(That’ll have to do O’Bayou. Being the Gombeen man you are you can’t be relied on to pay me for any more. Don’t go sending me any cheap mouthwash like you usually do. It’s a bottle of Powers or you’ll get it in the bracket next time we meet. And that translation’s an affront to poetry, a travesty. There’s no reason to be feeling so pleased with yerself.)

Editor's Note

O’Loonihan, while a respected literary critic, is not the full shilling as you can see. In the interests of artistic freedom I have printed his thoughts in full. Maybe next time I’ll spend a few more Euros and see what Seamus Heaney makes of it all.

The Ancelotti Salutation (by Gobshite naDoggerell, with an English translation by B. O’Bayou)

Hello Carlo,
Sit yourself down,
Welcome to our dizzying town.
West Ham’s East and Fulham’s West
But this is where the football’s best.

The Bridge awaits,
We watch, all quivery
Anticipating Pato, Ribery?
Will you prosper? Will you cope?
They’ll only give you so much rope.

The season’s long,
The prizes many,
What happens if we don’t win any?
Then friend, your fate is sealed for sure
You will be ushered through the door.

We trust this will
Not come to pass,
So stop a while and raise a glass,
Bid hail unto our latest chief,
Let’s hope your reign will not be brief.

Another book,
A bright new story,
We’re off again, bound for glory,
Thumb the page, turn o’er a leaf,
Read the chapter called “Belief”.

Your countrymen
Have done us proud,
We sang their praises, sang out loud,
The shaven headed, smoking Vialli
The Roman butcher’s son, Ranieri.

Guus, the Dutchman,
Son of the soil.
He made them sweat, he made them toil.
Once again we were a force,
On Wembley’s turf, we stayed the course

A pig man’s son
Now takes the reins,
A man with football in your veins.
You’ve shinned up the greasy pole,
To climb again must be your goal.

So take good care
Of our lovely boys.
To us they’re heroes, not mere toys.
Their skills, their hearts you must not scoff at,
We have enough of that with Moffat.

It just remains
To say good luck,
Remember you may have to duck,
The arrows that our press will fire,
To try and drop you in the mire.

The Bi-Polar Express End of Term Report: Class of 2008/09

The scene is the grand hall of St. Chelsea of Stamford Bridge School for Bi-Polar Excellence, somewhere in a leafy suburb in South West London Town. The uniformed students in varying degrees of piety and wretchedness stand in front of the main stage area, smirking and generally joshing as young men do. Some are mere scruffy haired urchins, others the model of senior pupil sartorial elegance. The Master of Ceremonies bangs the gavel three times onto the raised dais and in a slow but calm booming voice calls out the assembled throng.

“Please be standing for your Headmaster, the Right Reverend Dr. Anthony Jockstrap Blueheart-Glover.”

Silence descends upon the sniggering hordes and expressions change from boyish grins into respectful... nay fearful... frowns. Their moment is near. The Headmaster stands at the dais, peers over his funky designer vari-focal glasses, his authority visible through the glowering eyes and furrowed brow. The mortar board is tilted slightly as if just ever so slightly being positioned for a launching across the sea of faces at the first person to snigger, cough or twitch. No smile shows on his face. He merely exhibits a blank tableau of emotionless coldness. This is the moment of truth for the everyone in the school, from pupils to teachers and patrons alike.

“Gentlemen, you may sit... quietly.”

He gathers his thoughts through a moment’s pause, allowing the fear and trepidation to build just a little more...

“Today we are gathered here for annual public report covering the performance of all involved with St. Chelsea of Stamford Bridge School for Bi-Polar Excellence... gentlemen, this is a very important day for the school. Today you will find out just exactly where you stand on the things you did throughout this school year. For some this will be a chance to celebrate your achievements and to receive the deserved credit from your peers for your hard work. For others it will be an experience from which you should listen hard and learn from. For some, it will be painful, hard to hear and... as you know we believe the chance to be part of this esteemed establishment is one of life’s greatest honours. For those who have dishonoured our great establishment, there will be public scorn.”

The mood is sombre, for no member of the school can be sure of what to expect. Everyone has the nagging pain of doubt and fear.

“Gentlemen, we start of course with the pupils... the people upon who we trust to take us forward and through the delivery of great results, to take us to glories anew. To boldly go where no ‘Blue’ has gone before. Gentlemen, our defensive line first...”

“Mr. Petr Cech...” a pause and the tall slender figure looks up to the stage... “You’ve shown promise which still flickers on occasions, but you’ve let your fears overcome you and you have gone into your shell on too many occasions. You’re still a big hope for this school but I fear complacency has crept in because you don’t have to fight for your place. This will change and you must try harder if you’re to reach your earlier potential young man. 7/10 for results, 6/10 for effort.”

The young man looks downward to hide the merest hint of a smile. He knew he’d not been at his best but... he had another chance.

“Mr. John Terry...” the young man looks downwards... he is not sure what will follow... “Stand proud young man. You are the School Captain and of course, the captain for your country. You have been immense yet again. You sir, are a true leader and despite your shortcomings, you make up for all of this with effort, pride, passion and leadership. You have every right to be proud. 9/10 for results and 10/10 for effort.”

“Mr. Alex... what can I say? You fooled us into thinking you were a makeweight... a stand-in... a deputy... but this term you have been a revelation. When Senor Carvalho decided to get himself crocked you selflessly and tirelessly looked into the breach and then stepped into it. You’ve made one or two minor errors but young man, you can be proud of this term's achievements. Of course we will want more. 8/10 for results and 9/10 for effort.”

He looks down concealing the broad smile. Damn... he knew he was better than they said.

“Mr. Ashley Cole...” the fresh faced youngster looks bright eyed to the stage... “Despite your apparent problems keeping the old chap out of trouble, you have buckled down and produced your finest results since we rescued you from that North London School for Sleaze. You have ignored the hostility of the baying mobs from other schools to show your real capability. Well done young man. Just try to keep the trouser snake in its house... OK? 9/10 for results and 10/10 for effort.”

So far so good. The ensemble warms to the presence of the man they fear, loathe and love in equal measure.

“Sr. Jose Bosingwa... you show great promise but have a tendency to operate outside of the role we have planned for you. Occasionally you can’t decide which of your minds to operate... the great defender, or the marauding wing back. It has led us into some unnecessarily sticky situations, but you have great ball skill, score the odd goal and can cross the ball. In anyone’s books you’ve made a decent start. 7/10 for results and 7/10 for effort.”

“Sr. Carvalho... look at me boy! I don’t know what happened, but you’ve had so many injuries it’s affected your form. And now I am told you’re looking for pastures new with barbed comments about a lack of support from us. This school is a meritocracy young man, no-one has an automatic right to a starting place... well apart from Mr. Terry... and maybe young Francis Lampard. It’s a shame because you’ve been a good servant to us. Maybe it is time to part, but I’d rather hoped it was as friends rather than bitter former colleagues. 4/10 for results and 4/10 for effort. Good bye.”

“Mr. Ivanovic. I had my doubts. Under former Principle Grant I was even convinced that just like the badger, you were a made up entity. No-one ever saw you in the flesh. I am happy to say you’ve proved me wrong. You have a great future here, unless we get a silly offer. 8/10 for results and 9/10 for effort.”

“Master Mancienne. Keep it up lad, keep it up. You’re coming along nicely, just don’t rush things. 7/10 for results and 8/10 for effort.”

He pauses and with a lower, almost apologetic tone he says, “Paulo Ferreira and Joseph Cole, you are excused from any ratings on the basis of injuries sustained in the line of duty, however... young Joseph, you did display disturbing signs of a lack of awareness, focus and effort prior to your injury. One can only hope your absence has given you time to think and reflect on your early season folly.”

The back line breathes a sigh of relief. None can be too unhappy with their assessment. Sweaty palms are now dry, and pride swells as the Headmaster leads the congregation in a hearty round of applause.

Silence descends as the Head's patience suddenly seems to run out.

“Now we hear about the midfield, the linchpin between our brave defensive line and the front line boys of attack. Mr. Lampard... what can I say? You are a model of professionalism and consistency, an icon of this school and a man for whom the word professional could have been invented. You have big balls lad, and defended your honour well against that hideous radio oik who tried to besmirch your name. Your efforts alone in the FA Cup Final bought us that wonderful old trophy again. Gentlemen, I hereby announce that yet again, Francis Lampard is St. Chelsea’s Top Boy. 9/10 for results and 10/10 for effort.”

The crowd erupts into applause, including the Head. Only a small dejected figure refuses to join in. The Head spots this truculent boy and immediately stops clapping. He glowers at the quivering student... and the hush falls again. The reddened cheeks of the Head tell everyone in advance that this will not be pleasant. Then the roar starts...

“Sr. Deco! Yes, you boy, stand up will you! I had great hopes for you, but you’ve let me down badly. You’ve let the school down and you’ve let all these colleagues of yours down. You didn’t even try to adapt. You’re lazy... a quitter... you are NOT sufficiently bi-polar which makes you NOT the type of person we want at Chelsea. 2/10 for results and 1/10 for effort. Sir... you are dismissed... you are the weakest link... good bye.” At this point an embarrassed silence is rent asunder by the roar of laughter from the boys at a rare joke from Sir. And no, they’re not laughing with Deco, they are laughing at him.

“Herr Ballack... your arrogance serves you well. Sometimes I wonder what you do, but when you’re missing from the team, nothing seems to work quite so well. You are the archetypal midfield general. Unspectacular mostly, but mightily efficient. 7.5/10 for results, 8/10 for effort.”

“Essien... yes boy... you... wake up now. You also have what the Spanish call ‘cojones’. You battled back from injury to give everyone a lift in the latter part of term. Your success against Barcelona was indeed worthy of the biggest stage, it’s a shame your error led directly to that night of pain and anguish. However, you will have learnt that a Row Z punt is sometimes the right option and for your effort on returning we all forgive you that error. 7.5/10 for results and 9/10 for effort.”

“Obi. Obi... Obi... Obi. A big term for you which saw big improvements in your game. You are calm on the ball and reassuringly solid in midfield. You are very much part of the future. 8/10 for results, 7/10 for effort.”

“Mr. Salomon Kalou. Kalou-less as we like to call you. You have talent but seem to lack intelligence. You are our Scarecrow. For all this I believe you can still be a great player and this season has seen some improvement, especially when linking with Monsieur Anelka and Mr. Drogba. 7/10 for results and 7/10 for effort. Must try harder.”

All that could be heard was the shuffling of rich young backsides shuffling in their seats. A swarthy young Frenchman sat quietly with beads of sweat pouring down his face. He knew what was next.

“Monsieur Florent Malouda. Stand up boy. You had a disastrous year last term, and for much of this year you were equally as bad. But of course our relief teacher Mr. Hiddink came in and saw something in you. It is a credit to the man that whatever he did, it saw you transform into a model pupil finally achieving close to the potential we first saw in you. For that you are to be congratulated but it must continue. Another term of slacking will see you spending time with Sr. Deco. 8/10 for results eventually and 7.5/10 for effort... sit back down and think about what I’ve said. You have the ability, now just continue to show the desire.”

“Sr. Belletti, a sterling effort but I fear we must part. On good terms of course. 7/10 for results and 7/10 for effort.”

“Gentlemen, before we move on, honourable mentions here for Masters Stoch and Di Santo, especially for their efforts against Stoke City which helped us win a game that looked to have slipped from our grasp. Both have futures, maybe with us maybe not, but I do hope our new Principle does give them the chance to show their mettle...” he turns the page and smiles... “Now onto the attack dogs...” the boys laughed as this was a perennial school joke term for what was often viewed as the most thankless of roles, but often the most rewarding.

“Monsieur Anelka. The great misfit, the great wanderer and the moody one. Top scorer huh? We all knew you would score goals because it’s what you do, but to see the work rate and the effort, the selflessness and the sheer ability on the ball has been revelatory for many. A very good year indeed and we fully expect you to take a leaf from Top Boy's book and repeat this next year. It’s good to see you working so well with the team. 9/10 for results and 8/10 for effort.”

“Gentlemen, onto the last of the pupils...” a tall muscular boy stands up... the Head looks down. This boy is the puzzle inside the riddle wrapped in the enigma.

“Mr. Drogba. The most bi-polar of all. Dissenting one minute, unswervingly loyal the next. A complex boy, a thinking boy... a boy who maybe thinks too much. Comfortable in his skin one minute, fighting the world the next. But on your day there is no-one better and for that you may find yourself indulged a little longer. One last bit of advice. Even if something is a fucking disgrace, it’s best you don’t share that with a cameraman. 8/10 for results and 6/10 for effort... mainly due to the idiocy of your early season performances. Although I do understand the issues you had with our former Principle, this alone cannot excuse your performance at the Theatre of Nightmares that is Old Trafford.”

The boy smiles. He knows where he’s well off but it’s taken a long time to work it out. He also knows... he just knows he can make it up to the lads. He just needs to stop thinking so much...

The Head looks across the crowd. Not bad he thinks. The new Principle, Signor Carlo Ancelotti looks on from the side of the front row. He has been taking copious notes and his face gives no clue as to the future of this group.

“We give thanks to Mr. Abramovich for the support he has given us, and we continue to acknowledge his part in this school's progress towards bi-polar excellence. To Mr. Kenyon, the Chief Purser we throw a nod as acknowledgement for your part in building our new brand. Your Mancunian roots still serve as a point of distrust in your desire to see the team become successful though. To Sr. Scolari... all I can say is this: After a promising start it became all too obvious that we severely misjudged your ability to operate on a daily basis at this level with such talented athletes. Unfortunately for you our rivals also saw through your one and only game plan and therefore it was without much regret that you had to go. 6/10 for results and 6/10 for effort... mainly due to the fact that you really didn’t seem too bothered about whether you stayed or departed.”

“Finally, to Mr. Guus Hiddink, the school and its devoted followers and staff would like to doff an almighty mortar board in your direction. Despite my own personal misgivings you showed that game plans needed to change, you restored fitness, pride and most of all belief. You made us close to being a title winning side, you got us close to the Champions League Final again after Sr. Scolari had stumbled us through the group stages. And you brought us a first trophy for two years, whilst at the same time finally extinguishing the ghost of The Special One. Francis Lampard Jr. maybe Top Boy, but you get the award for Top Man. 9/10 for results and 10/10 for effort. You will always have a special place in our hearts and will be most welcome to come back in some capacity after your Russian adventure is over.”

Spontaneous applause erupts and no-one can hear the sobbing of the Brazilian Portuguese boy standing alone outside holding a suitcase. The Head casts a final eye across the crowd... and once again speaks...

“Good people, this has been an eventful year, a rollercoaster ride of highs and more lows than we care to experience. All of which makes us stronger. The highs came against Juventus and Liverpool in the Champions League, beating an old Principle from this school whilst remembering fondly his efforts to move us on during... less affluent times. The Liverpool games will live long in all our hearts... well... those that carried on beating afterwards!” A ripple of laughter washes around the hall. “The win over Arsenal in the FA Cup and the Premier League more than compensated for them being the second team to come to our revered home ground and beat us publicly. Our marvellous away record is another point to be proud of, and of course who can forget the FA Cup Final day and the joy that saw us bring the oldest trophy in football back to this special place. Of course the lows were out in force as well, notably our first home defeat in four years to our mortal sworn enemies from the red half of Merseyside. The Arsenal defeat stuck in the craw especially when the winning goal was so blatantly offside. The defeat... well the technical defeat against Barcelona hurt a lot as well, but no-one this year anywhere gave them such two hard games as we did. And for me, the real lows were pathetic displays at home against Newcastle and Hull. It was the Hull game that sealed Sr. Scolari’s fate. The owner patently having seen enough to know his investment was in danger of being set adrift, but not on memory bliss. We now look to Signor Ancelotti to guide us onto more and greater glories. We wish him luck. I now declare this school term officially over – enjoy your holidays boys. We’ll see some of you next year.”

The hats fly into the air, proud parents clap from the sides. Wives and girlfriends squeal with delight. The boys break into broad smiles and a spontaneous three cheers for the Head.

He once again peers over the rims of the glasses, a taut smile starting to form as the pride swells inside him. He is tired. He’s kicked every ball, tackled every player, and headed every cross. He’s laughed, he’s cried, and he’s shouted and screamed. He’s looked on in a silent mixture of dismay and disbelief. He’s jumped for joy and hugged more strangers than is probably appropriate. He has lived and breathed the St. Chelsea of Stamford Bridge School for Bi-Polar Excellence. These are his boys. Now he can rest and recharge, and like everyone else can watch the summer madness unravel in front of him.

The Right Reverend Dr. Anthony Jockstrap Blueheart-Glover slips away quietly, slowly closing the huge wooden door behind him. Time to think about next week’s edition of the Bi-Polar Express.

Keep the Blue Flag Flying High!

The Bi-Polar Express: FA Cup Souvenir Edition

This was a momentous week in the lives of all those who love Chelsea Football Club, which by any standards is an experience like few others in how to experience such extremes of despair and joy. After two years of a trophy room starting to smell a bit musty due to nobody having any reason to open it, two years of Champions League heartbreak, two years of missed Premier League opportunities, two years which saw us lose to the detestable Spurs in full public view at Wembley, the rot was finally stopped by a superb and well deserved win over fellow Blues Everton at Wembley.

Much has been said over the last few years about the tarnished image of the FA Cup, about its faded romance and its dimming light under the full on glare of allegedly greater competitions. When I say greater I actually mean richer and more financially lucrative. The All Conquering Sky Premier League and The Megabucks Behemoth that is The Champions League have certainly done their utmost to relegate the season’s showpiece finale to that of nothing more than an amusing folly. The influx of foreign coaches has further encouraged this view as well, steeped as they are in footballing cultures where the idea of a knockout competition is an anathema to a season’s toil of strategy and skill. For the likes of the triumvirate of evil, Tubby Benitez and Arsehole Wenger, and now surely to his eternal shame Sir Purplenose of Manchester Village, the other competitions were games of chess in comparison to the roulette table. Skill and planning for one, pure luck and guesswork for the other.

Mastermind versus Deal or No Deal.

These three fools all wax lyrical about the importance of the cup competitions before putting out second string sides but then purport to be aggrieved when lesser sides, desperate for success, capitalise on luck and reserves of inner spirit to overcome their own great leaps into the unknown that come from playing ‘reserve’ teams, full of pre-pubescent rosy cheeked cherubs barely able to comprehend the sudden necessity for copious amounts of Oxy-10. To our eternal credit we have not, as yet, succumbed to this selective attitude towards success. In fact from the top four we are honestly the only club that hasn’t gone down the ‘play our foetal range’ route, something for which barely no-one has given us credit for. Chelsea Football Club respects every competition it enters and tries to win it. Claims from Manchester Village, Liverscum and Airline FC along similar lines can be dismissed as empty, dishonest and meaningless platitudes.

To a degree it’s easy to understand this viewpoint, after all any success that comes down to hard work, planning, dedication, patience, belief and skill has to be more rewarding and satisfying personally. Doesn’t it? To most of us we’d agree that this is indeed worthy and virtuous, but of course what it does is remove the thrill of the unknown, the thrill of not knowing how the dice will fall, the thrill of the gambler. Work hard and earn your corn is an honourable way to live, but then why do so many of us do the lottery? Want to toil away for 40 odd years for a semi-decent pension and the proverbial gold watch, or would you rather scoop this Saturday’s lottery rollover of £8m? I know what would make me happier.

The FA Cup isn’t devoid of skill, it’s just harder to plan for unknown or unfamiliar opponents and every game is effectively a one-off. In that 90 minute period any great side having an off day can be unceremoniously dumped on its podgy Premier League posterior. Humiliation is a spectre that is never far away. Maybe the triumvirate of evil fear this spectre that hangs over knockout games, and maybe we, having faced down and been beaten by the ghost of humiliation many times before, know deep inside that it isn’t Freddie Kruger or Michael Myers. No, I think we realised some time ago that it’s the Slimer from Ghostbusters. It’s sticky, uncomfortable and tastes vile, but you can wash the slime of humiliation away and come back with some proton packs and beat it next time. We are the Ghostbusters! Ruud Gullitt was our Dr. Egon Spengler, Gianluca Vialli was the stressed Ray Stantz, and of course Jose Mourinho was our mischievous Peter Venkman. Guus Hiddink was merely a hybrid of all three rolled into one uber-Ghostbuster.

All true football fans of course aren’t wrapped up in the business of football, but are inextricably meshed into the romance of the game. That’s why local derbies count, that’s why relegation cuts so deep, that’s why a trophy is a trophy... it’s symbolic of achievement, of reward, of being valued and just for once, of being winners. The arrogance of the triumvirate of evil will never let them consider the feelings of their fans about a trip to Wembley for the Carling Cup, despite Manchester Village winning it this year. Does anyone really think Sir Purplenose really gave a stuff about winning that trophy? Deep inside does Wenger really care one jot what the Arsenal fans think about yet another trophy-less season when he displays such utter contempt for a competition that his first team stood a damn good chance of winning? Sadly, they appear to feel the same way about the FA Cup and that along with Manchester Village’s reviled decision to withdraw a few years back may have inflicted a serious wound on the old girl. But it didn’t, and their disregard for the world’s oldest competition hasn’t dimmed it in most people’s eyes, including their own fans.

My whole Chelsea life began with an FA Cup Final. The 1970 Final to be precise. Until that time I had merely been a football mad kid with a vacant footballing soul. I was a football club virgin. I’ve told the story many times, but in essence most of the school mates I had wanted Leeds to win. The reasons as far as I could make out were that Leeds had finished above us in the league in second place (Everton were first) and the name Leeds implied ‘leaders’... well we were only nine at the time. Even back in those days kids latched onto the more successful teams and my own area of West London had its unhealthy share of Leeds fans, Spurs fans and Manchester Village fans (sucked in by the Best/Charlton glory years). However, when I questioned my dad about who I should follow for the cup he was absolutely firm in his view that we would support Chelsea because they were the London team and the underdogs. At this point the explanation of the term underdogs was required to ensure that I wasn’t confused by seeing certain dogs underneath others in the park that I’d assumed were just playing an unsuccessful version of doggy leap frog. That sealed it. The romance of supporting the team no-one expected to win and that happened to be reasonably local as well excited me. Although London was a very big city to a small boy, and Stamford Bridge may well have been in... ahem... Yorkshire as far as I was concerned... imagine my shock when I found out many years later that the original was in bloody Yorkshire! The idea that I was gambling self esteem and credibility amongst my mates took its grip and Chelsea Football Club had taken moved all its baggage and belongings into the vacant echoing rooms of my footballing soul and put a sign outside saying ‘All Rooms Taken’. A blue flag was raised above the roof of that soul declaring permanent residency and will only come down on the day I shuffle my way off this mortal coil. And even then, in the afterlife, if one exists, I’ll be a true Blue. All because of the FA Cup.

Within days I knew everything there was to know, every player, every manager and the history of the club. Way prior to any posters from Look-In magazine of The Sweet, Slade and T-Rex adorned my room, pride of place belonged to Ron Harris, Ian Hutchinson, Peter Houseman, Peter Osgood, Bobby Tambling, Alan Hudson, Peter Bonnetti, Eddie Macreadie, Charlie Cooke, David Webb, John Hollins, John Dempsey, Tommy Baldwin and Marvin Hinton. They were the reason I am who I am now. They are why I love this club and they are the reason I fork out several hundred pounds each year for a season ticket and merchandising. I cried when we were losing the replay at Old Trafford. My heroes had let me down, the full brutal cruelty of football fandom was hitting home at the first hurdle. Within minutes of being despatched to the kitchen for the customary evening treat and comforter of two biscuits, as my small boyhood hand rummaged around the tin, and my brain feverishly tried to work out how to wolf down a few more before going back in I heard the howl of delight from my dear old dad as Osgood latched onto a dream ball from Cooke to equalise. The rest is history and the brutal cruelty had been transformed into the sheer joy of winning. There are fewer more addictive drugs and from that day I was as hooked as the person experiencing their first trip on acid.

That’s why it matters. It forms children’s (and adults) allegiances. It teaches them about the cruelty and majesty of life’s lows and highs. It is truly a character forming experience. It is the beginning of a love affair at the hands of the cruellest yet most beautiful of mistresses. That’s the romance of the cup.

There’s not much to add to Nick’s fine post match report. Not a single Chelsea player had a bad game, and exceptional performances were once again visible from Malouda (my Man of the Match again... who’d have thought?), the superb Anelka and the newly humble but persistent Drogba. Young Mikel Obi also had an outstanding game, proving to me it would be utter madness to even consider letting him go after such a consistent and progressive season for the lad. Everton were the stereotypical plucky challenger, stunning us with the early goal. Well, maybe not stunning us... it was more akin to being slapped on the wrist for dozing off at the start of the lesson. It’s a long time since I’ve been less worried about an opponent scoring against us first. After the early goal we simply took calm and cool control of the game and the equaliser was barely a surprise to anyone, including Everton. After that goal and despite the game petering out for a while at the start of the second half mainly due to 41 degrees of searing early summer heat, it was clear that only one team would go on to win. The more we held the ball, the more plucky Everton chased, and the more tired they became. Frank’s goal was utterly sublime, and of course had Stevie-Me scored it then as the Good Kaiser himself said to me, it would have surely been named The Gerrard Final. The newly revitalised Malouda had a superb strike ruled out as the referee and linesman couldn’t be sure it crossed the line. Hardly their fault when one watched the sheer speed and dip of the shot. But yet another example of how we seem to get less decisions rather than more. Just one minor downer was the utter bile spewed from Craig Burley on Setanta Sports (whose all day coverage was utterly superb... they do seem to get the romance of the cup), despite the rather excellent commentary from Jon Champion. I know as ex-Chelsea he won’t want to seem biased, but honestly he barely gave us credit for anything, and his dismissal of Frank’s goal as being more down to Howard’s poor goalkeeping than Frank’s thunderbolt was downright disrespectful.

What else can I say about the day?

As special as 1970? No, cynicism affects me as much as anyone these days and that win was experienced through the blue tinted eye glasses of childhood innocence and wonderment.

As special as 1997? No, because that ended 27 years of a success wilderness patch. That win was a glass of water to the dying man crawling through the desert of failure and underachievement.

As special as 2000? Yes, probably even though the old Wembley was weeks away from the wrecking ball.

As special as 2007? Even more so. As welcome as that win was it also came at a time when the acquisition of trophies seemed a regular occurrence and our expectation levels had been inflated to new and unreasonable levels.

The last two years have been as trauma filled as I can remember as we lurched from the success highway to the cobbled street of failure and heartbreak discarding managers like cabinet ministers discard their posts. The sun shone, Wembley looked great, we played in yellow, the Magners flowed, the champagne flowed, I went from coolness personified to gibbering wreck the minute Abide With Me, stunningly performed by the London Community Gospel Choir (surely a permanent fixture after that), started and the last 10 minutes saw me transformed into a Tourette’s afflicted lunatic, screaming into ChelseaBob’s plasma screen. The final whistle felt like someone had finally punctured me before I exploded. The rest of the evening is a blur due to the excitement, the heat and in no mean part the alcohol. I loved it. Every last nerve shredding minute of it. It's times like this that one remembers how great it is to be alive. I truly hope it’s the start of another period of success.

I’ll leave my thoughts on the season and the huge news that our new coach is Carlo Ancelotti until the next Bi-Polar Express. That may appear next week or the week after as I’m off to ‘le Sud de France’ for a long overdue bit of downtime. The season review will also follow with the full array of player ratings, fan ratings and lies, damned lies and statistics. Plus an early look into Madam Chelsea Tony’s crystal ball for some early predictions. Order your copy now!

And here we have the usual collection of facts, gossip and lies with my very own BS rating alongside where 0 is fact, 1 is possibly true and 5 is a heaving smelly dung pile of utterly rotten putrefying bullshit.

Carvalho ready to leave Chelsea – TG BS Rating 2 – Quite possibly true. As much as I love Riccy he hasn’t featured this season and it’s arguable whether we’ve even missed him. Both Alex and Ivanovic have proven to be worthy understudies and at nearly 32 and seemingly injury prone perhaps it’s time to cash in.

AC Milan midfielder Andrea Pirlo has ruled out a summer move to Chelsea to link up with his old manager Carlo Ancelotti – TG BS Rating 2 – Who needs Pirlo... what on earth can he add to our current squad? Good, stay where you are.

Chelsea placed a record bid for Kaka in order to gazump Real Madrid – TG BS Rating 4 – Highly unlikely – even we’re not daft - £75m was being spoken of in total – if Roman is releasing £100m then there are three or four others we could and should get. Ribery, Villa and Aguero spring immediately to mind as a collection to excite and rejuvenate the current squad.

Frank Ribery, David Villa, Ashley Young, Ross Turnbull, Sergio Aguero, Glen Johnson, Alexander Pato and even Samuel Eto’o are on their way, probably amongst many others – TG BS Rating 3 – Who knows, the silly season is well under way and maybe one or two will arrive with the exception of Eto’o as we don’t need another ageing Barcelona dud after the last one.

Jose Bosingwa is being courted for a possible move to Bayern Munich – TG BS Rating 2 – As part of a swap deal for Ribery perhaps? I like Bosingwa, but Johnson was ruined by Mourinho and looks a decent player at Pompey. With Ivanovic able to play anywhere across the back four then maybe this is not such a bad move.

Chelsea misfit Deco is on the verge of a move to Inter Milan - TG BS Rating 1 – Dear lord please let this be true. Anyone of the loyal readers of this blog would drive him to the airport just to make sure he’s gone. A waste of money, possibly our biggest, even bigger than Shevchenko who at least tried his best.

And finally, culture corner, lyrics dressed as poems; with a tangential relationship to Chelsea at best... these words are not far off how I felt on Sunday morning.

I'm a phallus in pigtails
And there's blood on my nose
And my tissue is rotting
Where the rats chew my bones
And my eye sockets empty
See nothing but pain
I keep having this brainstorm
About twelve times a day
So now, you could spend the morning walking with me, quite amazed
As I'm Unwashed
and Somewhat Slightly Dazed

Keep the Blue Flag Flying High!

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